


When Your First Four Dates Are in a Convenience Store, It Might Be Destiny

by florahart



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Can convenience store burritos be matchmakers, Clint goes to college, M/M, Not a college AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton, one time carnie, is halfway to a college degree and working nights to pay for it when Phil Coulson shows up in his life and orders a burrito.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Your First Four Dates Are in a Convenience Store, It Might Be Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> This is the other fic I've been working on for much longer than is usual for me. It's okay to tell me if you see typos (or not); again I am much too impatient for a beta after 8 months with this thing.

The radio, as per usual, is playing garbage when Clint comes in, but since the choices out here are garbage in English, garbage in Spanish, or a station that's all talk if by talk you mean paranoid ranting about aliens (interstellar, illegal, whatever), Clint just turns it down so it's still there in the background, because the intermittent customers apparently find it creepy if it's just him and thirty miles of silence when they stop in the middle of the night, and drops his pack behind the counter.

He waves without looking up as Jake heads out three seconds later, and glances down the line of stickynotes and taped up scraps that constitute the daily communication system among the staff. Nothing new, or at least, nothing other than an extremely unsubtle invitation from Jacinta, stuck up folded with his name on it in purple ink, which he is going to ignore like the last dozen because she is very literally half his age and also not much brighter than the hose on the pump outside. 

At least this one isn't sparkly.

The note, not the hose.

He turns to survey the rest of the workspace (grungy-looking, but more or less clean) and considers just buckling down to the homework right off the bat. Tonight's field of study is nothing he shouldn't have learned in high school, if he'd stuck around for anything so mundane as the ninth grade along the way to calculus and physics, and sometimes when he looks at his life choices, he wants to kick his punk fifteen year old self in the nuts a couple of times for choosing the life of the carnie instead of, you know, anything a reasonable person would want to do past the age of twenty-three, but hey, community college at thirty-five is a valid means of turning things around, or so the guidance counselor (who was born when Clint was in the second grade; her good cheer doesn't always inspire his confidence) tells him. 

In any case, he's most of the way to getting a real live Associate's degree in computer science so he can get a decent job in any techie field or a web programming job or for that matter something in a nontechie kind of place or, failing that, do, um, maybe anything other than work overnights at the only gas station between nowhere and bumfuck while he figures out if he can for real transfer to State and make it a Bachelor's, so there it is. Plus, the programming parts of the curriculum are actually kind of fun (and surprisingly easy, for all people bitch about loops, although for his current class that might be because the instructor is a manic loon with a wild-ass beard whose sidetracks are awesomely irrelevant until the very moment they come back in line, and hello, solution to world hunger; he's also canceled class at the last minute three times so far, which is the only reason Clint doesn't think he's completely awesome), except for how it wouldn't kill him if the classroom were a little less with the nerd boy brigade every damn term. Some of them are pretty, but most of them are also at _least_ a dozen years younger than Clint, and busy lamenting either the dearth of chicks in the program or the long-ago cancellation of Firefly or both.

Yeah, life choices, Clint-of-the-past: not awesome. He's okay with the number of pretty boys in practice, course, but in principle, well. He's known way too many women with the kind of brain to love this work in his life not to think there's something profoundly fucked up about how the ratio of boys to girls is usually something like 12:1.

He contemplates his night's worth of tasks another minute, then shrugs and glances over at the the times posted on all the crappy food in the case. Jake will stretch the truth until it breaks, then fold it in half and stretch it again, so every single one of them is probably a lie. He pokes at a corner of springy yellow cheese on a grayish burger. 

Okay, that food was probably old in 1992. Nice. 

He chucks it all, finds Jake's page in the supply binder, and notes the wasteful overproduction in a credible--if you ask him, which he does--facsimile of Jake's handwriting. He examines Jake's sign-off, which he suspects actually says JTAwesome instead of J.T. Austin like a fucking regular person, then copies that too.

It's not even unethical; it _is_ his fuckup, even if Justin, the owner, probably would actually approve of the stinginess of keeping everything anyway, which is too fucking bad because Clint has no intention of serving food that will actually make people die of gastrointestinal gangrene four miles up the road (or, possibly, in the parking lot where he'd have to clean up the mess). He had enough of people puking on circus and carnival food to last him forever plus one bright shiny day, and also, he sort of thinks if people pay for food they should be able to expect not to be actively made ill. Call him crazy.

It's eleven thirty at night, though, and it's not like there'll be a lot of traffic besides the long-haul guys, and most of them would _ask_ to wait five minutes for a new chimichanga rather than get something that's been sitting for nine hours and'll make them have to pull off before they get up to Caswell, so after a while he makes up a couple of corn dogs and a couple of burritos in the fryer and hangs up the sign that says he's cooking to order.

Sort of; cooking might be a grandiose term for the task.

After that, it's all about work and ratios, friction and mass, and a bunch of formulas relating all these things to each other. He can think of examples on his own for most of his stuff, things he knows with his hands and body how to do, so it's just a matter of translating application into principle and generalizing.

Shut up, he's a college boy and he can use big words. Plus, his teacher's a pretty good guy, most of the time, kind of quiet and sarcastic in the way Clint can absolutely appreciate, and except for the fact he occasionally shows up late looking like maybe he went nine rounds with a T-Rex, he's a good- _looking_ guy, too. Clint wants to do well and win his approval, so he pays attention and tries not to be any bigger of a smartass than he can help.

When the bell rings, he's busy fucking around with the calc homework. Here, the principle is easy but the applications the textbook offers are boring, because who pays attention in the real world to what can substitute for secant squared? Seriously, the utility makes sense and all when it comes to actually solving a real problem involving some kind of wave function, but in the abstract? Yuck. He's just as glad to put it down.

"Cooking to order, huh?" the guy says, eyebrowing the sign. He's in a suit, an honest to god suit and tie that looks expensive, and he has a handkerchief or whatever square thing tucked into his breast pocket.

"Anything you want, if I have the ingredients and some idea how to make it." Clint's not a huge fan of the menu, and goes off it on a regular basis. Justin hasn't had a problem, mostly because he manages to keep the income and the supply situation relatively making sense, and also because this place is probably a front for some less legit income that Clint suspects comes from a crop even more out of the way than this place. Working on the road for Lou for fifteen years and change taught him everything there is to know about keeping the boss off his back, though, and Clint doesn't give a shit if Justin is dealing pot, as long as he has no reason to think he's actually doing anything worse.

Not that he's looking for a reason; he keeps his head down and makes enough for tuition and rent with a little help from a grant from the feds for school because he's nontraditional (that's actually what they call him with a straight face; he's pretty sure they have _no idea_ exactly how nontraditional his life has been, but whatever, apparently he's just like people with kids or veterans).

The guy considers the menu and his lip twists a little, like he's assessing something. "Anything?"

Clint shrugs. "Okay, probably not a soufflé, since I don't have, you know, a real oven that holds a temperature. I also don't have any fresh meat, and the vegetable selection is limited. Dairy's pretty good, though." He points to the case, which is supplied by a local farm. "But I mean, I have a griddle, a deep-fryer, and a convenience store. I can probably come up with something edible." 

The guy isn't grinning, but he somehow gives the impression he's amused. "Is this a Top Chef episode with only the one contestant?"

"Uh. No?" 

"Just checking. Sometimes I catch old episodes at night. Sometimes they make them cook something good out of cans and plastic."

"I... see." Clint shrugs. "Well, name it, and we'll see if I can come close."

The guy shakes his head. "I'll be fine with a corn dog and a burrito."

"You sure? I only made those up about forty minutes ago, so they won't poison you or anything, but--"

"Nah, it's fine. Believe me when I tell you I've eaten enough truly unsavory things to appreciate the six bites of wonderful that is a deep-fried convenience-store burrito, and that one there looks downright fresh." He pulls out his wallet. "Also, I'm gonna want ten on two."

"Ten? It's 3.72 a gallon. That's only, uh, 2.7 gallons, give or take." Clint points out at the sign that faces the road away from them. "You know it's like 125 miles of bigass hills to the next place that's actually open all night? Because getting towing at this hour--cell reception is crap out here, and so is mileage, in general. You don't want to get stuck."

The guy gives him a look that Clint thinks might actually be a wink except for seriously, winking? But that's what it looks like and Clint is completely distracted by it which, yeah, this guy is trouble. "I know," he says with the wink. And he takes his burrito and his corn dog out to a shiny, shiny red car that has _no_ business being way out here in the hills at one in the morning, puts in 2.689 gallons for his ten bucks, and drives away.

Clint watches the road until his lights go out of sight over the arch of the pass to the north, then shrugs and makes another corn dog and another burrito for the case before turning back to trig substitutions.

\--

"You here every night?"

Burrito and corn dog guy, who Clint has only thought about a hundred and twenty or thirty times in the last three nights for reasons he can't (okay he can, but he doesn't want to) put a name to, is standing in front of him again in another suit.

Er, maybe it's the same suit. Clint cocks his head and decides it probably is, with a different tie, and Jesus what is wrong with him. "No, I do get days off from time to time."

"Ah, good. I wondered if they had you chained to the till or something."

Clint holds up his hands. "No chains, no ropes. You need another nine drops of gas, or are you here for the two bites of wonderful that is a Twinkie three years past its prime?"

"Both, but I was really hoping you'd solved the soufflé problem."

"Still no oven. Hey, so what brings you?"

"Here?"

"Uh, yeah." Clint closes up the calc book and leans over the counter, which lets him look up and down the expensive suit. "Don't see that many guys in ridiculous cars and clothes like yours around here."

"It's a temporary assignment."

"Kay." Clint pushes back off the counter, weight in his heels, and settles his hands on his hips. "So. Besides the Twinkie, and given the goddamn _shame_ that is the lack of proper soufflé-making equipment, what can I do ya fer?"

The corner of the guy's mouth turns up. "How about a cheeseburger?"

"Cheeseburger it is." Clint pushes up his cuffs, turns up the griddle, and bends down to grab a pre-formed beef circle out of the freezer. "Name's Clint, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Clint."

"And you are?"

"Going to go put ten in my car. Pump two."

Clint chuckles and flips the switch. "Everything on the burger?"

"What constitutes everything?"

"Ketchup. Unbelievably gross reconstituted onion. Stuff I've been told is lettuce."

"Sounds good. Be right back." The guy goes out the door, and Clint grabs the block of cheese slices out of the fridge. He makes himself a fake melted cheese while he's at it, toasting the inside of a bun on the surface and sticking cheese in it while it's still hot.

"This to go, or the paper tray okay?" he asks when the guy comes back. 

The guy looks at his sandwich and at Clint's. "Are you proposing we have dinner together, Clint?"

"Oh, I'd propose better things than this if I were hitting on you,"Clint says, shaking his head at himself even as he opens his mouth, "but sure. Pull up a tile and stand here with me to eat nutritionally-void processed crap." He grabs a paper cup and waves it toward the humming soda fountain. "Root beer? On me."

"Be still my heart," the guy says. His lips are quirked again, like he's grinning on the inside, and Clint tosses him the cup. It tumbles crazily in the air because it's paper, but Clint isn't surprised when the guy catches it with a casual reach and takes it to the fountain.

Not surprised, but still impressed. Shut up, he's a fan of competence.

\--

"Fill," the guy says. He's later tonight; it's nearly three and Clint has determined that implicit differentiation only makes sense if he sort of tries to think about it sideways. It'll get better; it'll start making real sense after a while, but right now it's just kind of pissing him off.

He looks up. "Fill? What, you're going on a grand tour in your gas-sippermobile tonight?" He pauses. "Or heading out of the area?"

"No, I still want ten on two. My name is Phil."

"Oh. Uh." Clint starts to reach automatically to shake hands, then remembers his half of the introduction happened last week, then puts his hand awkwardly to the back of his neck. "Hi, Phil." He nods toward the hot case. "That's all about ten seconds from expiration. What can I get you?"

Phil shrugs. "What are you having?"

"Me?" Clint shakes his head and contemplates the fact that he doesn't get paid until Friday and tuition has caused a bad case of broke for tonight, and while he could probably get away with paying up later, he tries to stick to a day by day kind of accounting, generally. Just in case.. "Nah, I'm good."

"And what if I'm buying?" Phil purses his lips, just enough that Clint finds himself focusing on them, and comes around to the end of the counter for the ancient and grungy stool with its leaking stuffing (held in, sort of, by an assload of peeling duct tape) so he can bring it back out and sit on it. "Come on, two of whatever you're having."

"Buying me dinner, now?"

"You started it."

"I did?"

"You bought me a root beer last time. Turned my head." Phil's delivery is completely deadpan, but Clint's pretty sure he's teasing. Flirting? Teasing, anyway. 

"Fair enough. Also, you're gonna get sticky," Clint warns.

Phil arches a brow about a millimeter. "Why, are we having pancakes, or were you suggesting something else?"

Clint feels blood rushing to his face, and what is he, twelve? Jesus. "Uh. I meant the stool you're sitting on. Once the tape residue warms up..."

"Ah." Phil lifts his weight off the surface and takes the handkerchief out of his pocket. "Better?"

"I just mean, you know, your nice suit and all." Clint rolls his eyes at himself. "So, what exactly brings a guy way the fuck out here wearing that three times in a week, anyway?"

"I could tell you, but..." Phil gestures at the griddle. "What're we having?"

"Actually, pancakes sounds kind of good." Clint contemplates his ingredients. "What do you think? I got pre-scrambled egg, biscuit mix, milk in the dairy case, sugar for the coffee..."

"Do you have syrup?"

"Well, I mean, we'd have to buy ingredients some, but we probably have some overpriced artificially-flavored maple goo over there somewhere." Clint points out into the two short aisles. "Next to the half pound box of sugar in cubes and the two-cup flour bag."

"If we're using pre-scrambled egg and pre-formed biscuit stuff, why get stuck on artificial syrup?" Phil says. "Also, I've had worse."

Clint shrugs. "Kay. These might be shitty, though." He grabs a cup and a lid, guesstimates proportions, and shakes. "Looks about right. So, what, you could tell me, but you'd have to kill me?"

"Is that what you inferred?"

"I think it's the standard expected inference, right?"

"What if I meant, but you'd fall asleep just thinking about it?"

"Did you?"

"Well, I could tell you, but..."

Clint laughs out loud. "Fine, I'll just go with my gut. Here's what _I_ think. You're a secret agent who, as a result of disobeying a secret order, got stuck looking for illegal employment situations in the ass end of nowhere in the middle of the night. Oh, and for reasons that probably have something to do with either your secret agent training or deep-rooted childhood trauma, you love terrible food and buying gas every five minutes, two gallons at a time."

"Two point seven."

"Right, whatever." Clint flicks water at the griddle and watches it sizzle and pop. "Here goes nothing." He pours the batter in four circles on the surface, then glances up. "Was I close?"

"Some aspects may have held some truth."

"Ah. Childhood trauma." Clint shrugs. "I hear pancakes are good for that."

Phil snorts and goes to fish a pair of the expensive glass-bottle root beers out of the case, picking up the fake syrup on the way back and grabbing a handful of butter pats from the condiment bar. "What are we doing for plates?" he asks, coming around back with Clint, which,okay, there's definitely a rule against customers behind the counter, but Clint feels like living dangerously.

All right, he _usually_ feels like living a little dangerously, a trait which he notices is mellowing out since he hit thirty, but Phil brings out the best in him.

"To-go trays?" he suggests. The pancakes do seem to be making bubbles appropriately, so he flips them, and they smell pretty okay, so he's calling this experiment a qualified success. "Why, you got a better idea?"

Phil shakes his head. "Nope, not really. Oh, wait." He grabs a roll of brown paper towel from under the counter and pulls off a long strip, folding it in three and laying it along the countertop. "Here. Serving dish."

"Works for me. Secret agents have mad improv skills, too?" 

"Or maybe it comes of my trauma," Phil agrees. He points at the cup and the scattered ingredients. "You?"

"Oh, definitely my childhood," Clint pulls the tab off the syrup and dumps some into a to-go tray, then pulls the cakes off the griddle and flips them onto the towels. He looks at Phil and gestures toward them as he pours four more onto the griddle, emptying the cup. "Go for it," he says.

"Nah, I can wait." Phil goes back around the counter and sits on his handkerchief on the stool. "I thought we'd eat together." 

Clint smiles, feeling a little stupidly shy, which he is going to ignore, and nods once, sharply. "Kay. I can do that."

\--

"So, the last time I ate at a counter off paper towels and felt happy about it was in college," Phil says as he comes in the door a week later.

Clint's only just picked his book back up from another late-night guest, and really doesn't mind putting it down again; in his opinion the Floss should be dammed up and its mill firebombed, but apparently his opinion is not the one that counts on this one. "Didn't see you drive up," he says. Which is a little weird, since usually he does have some idea who's in his lot; keeping his eyes open is not so much good for business as good for not dying of getting shot in a robbery, since he is, basically, really alone up here, and he has had to hand over the till a couple of times, nice and slow.

"I got here a few minutes ago," Phil says. He's in his usual tidy suit, but he's carrying a messenger bag, so that's different. "I opted against joining your former guest for a discussion of her oh-two-hundred reading needs."

Clint shrugs. "Hey, I guess she needed to bake a pie and ogle some naked guy touching himself tonight. All the same to me."

"She was also ogling you," Phil says.

"Eh, maybe a little, but what was I going to do? No shoes, no shirt, no staring?"

Phil nods. "True. I did wonder if she was going to ask whether you wanted to make some easy cash on the side, though."

"Who says she didn't?" Clint shakes his head. "Nah, I try to most keep 'touching myself or others intimately' and 'making a living' in separate life compartments."

"In my experience, knocking out that wall can lead bad places."

"Yeah, mine too. Hey, where ya been? It's been a whole week, man, and I was starting to think we had something going, here."

Phil shrugs. "Duty called, although I can unreservedly promise that had I been able to come here for no good reason rather than stay where I was, I would many times rather have been here."

"Oh, well good, because I'd have rather you'd been here, too." Clint flushes a little because what, are they going to say they kind of maybe _like_ -like each other now? "Also, where the hell were you that you could see what she was getting, anyway?"

Phil points at his car at the pump where it always is, then points at the curved mirror. "I may have made use of binoculars."

"Uh...huh. All right, so now I figure you're ex-military. And possibly scary."

"Do I look scary?"

"You look like..." Clint pauses and squints. "Accountant seems cliché, but I'm not thinking of any other unbelievably boring suit-wearing professions on the spot, so it's what I'm going with. What are you having tonight, by the way?"

Phil opens his messenger back and pulls out an array of vegetables. "We're making soup."

"Is this somehow related to college and paper towels?"

"Can't eat soup off of paper towels," Phil says, as though that's the obvious response. He comes around the counter again, and Clint shoves his book aside (maybe just changing English Literature to pass/no-pass would have been his better choice, but it's too late in the semester now. At least he's acing the ones that actually matter for his degree.) and wipes off the cutting board. 

"True. You bring service for two in that thing?"

"Nope, figured on hot cups." Phil brushes off his hands and rummages under the counter for a battered metal pan, one of the ones that goes in the hot case during the day when it's busy enough to have piles of food. "Griddle'll heat this fine, and then soup's on."

Clint raises his eyebrows. "Never thought of that one. Good plan."

Phil shrugs. "Who's Jacinta?" He pours some oil in the pan and starts chopping onions.

"What? Kid that works afternoons--oh. She left me another note, huh?" Clint glances at the board and facepalms, literally, as he tears down another purple, yes-sparkles, extremely explicit note. "Jesus, I hope her mother doesn't decide I'm taking her up on that shit."

"I assume you're not?"

"One, I am in all seriousness old enough to be her father, and I mean, I'm from this general area and also the carnival did come through this way every year for a long time, so it's actually--technically--possible in fact that I could be."

"Is that likely?"

"Not even. She has two little brothers that look exactly like her, and also it's really fucking unlikely, but my _point_ is, oh hell no to her suggestions."

"And two?"

"What?"

"That was point one, the age thing. Point two?"

"Oh, about the time she was born I worked out how much less I liked girls than boys. Or, well, no, how much more I like--anyway."

"Hm." Phil scrapes the onions into the hot oil, uses tongs to give the pan a shake, and moves on to carrots.

"Hm? That's all I get there?"

"You were hoping for a parade? I might be able to draw you a beautiful rainbow if you have some pens."

Clint snorts and snags the celery to start chopping. "No, but in my experience, and one of the reasons I kick myself on a regular basis about settling back in this area when I could have picked anywhere to ditch the sideshow, is that people tend to have some opinions when I say something like that."

"Ah, but you say it anyway. It's a trait I can respect. In any case, I'm not from here," Phil says. He scrapes the carrots in with the onions, shakes the pan again, and points. "In there when you're done."

"Figured as much." Clint looks out the window and stifles a groan. "So, the car coming up the road is my boss. I can get away with experimenting and I'm totally allowed to make myself food long as I pay for it, but having you back here is a problem. His rule system is a little ridiculous."

Phil shrugs and sets down his knife, then moves out around the counter. "Clint, as you previously guessed, I was, once upon a time, in the service. Stupid rules are stock in trade for a certain subset. Want me to hide out in the bathroom?"

"Nah. Just look like you're shopping."

"On it." Phil twitches his suit jacket slightly and tugs at his tie, and all of a sudden the illusion of sloppiness comes through, his shoulders sagging a little, his face looser and ...stupider. He wanders down into the chips just as Justin shoves his way through the door.

"Barton, what the fuck is going on with you and that little shit Austin?"

"No idea," Clint says. "He seemed pretty normal, for a normal asshole, last night, and Buck didn't say why he was covering when I got here, and I'm just me, same as ever. Dude, you didn't have to come all the way up the hill for that, though. Coulda called."

"What in the hell are you making?"

"Soup," Clint says. He points with his knife toward Phil, whose transformation has left him looking like the suit is badly tailored and his thinning hair is limp and untidy. It's a surprisingly effective disguise, and Clint sort of wants to take notes. "Brought my own veg," he adds, "and besides that guy and a horny chick from over in Kettlewood, it's been quiet for hours."

Justin nods. "Fine, whatever. Austin left me a message, says he doesn't like being the only one does anything around here, and he's just gonna quit if the rest of you all don't shape up. He got a leg to stand on?"

Clint snorts. "Man, it's not like I run all night or anything, but fuck's sake, I clean up his shit all the time. Except tonight--Buck had everything all shipshape and tidy for me. Honest, losing Jake would probably be for the best, if it was up to me." He glances past Justin at Phil, who's scowling and poking at his phone now. Justin follows his glance.

"Hey, buddy," Justin says, "Cells kinda suck up here. 'S why I had to drive all the way up."

Phil nods and puts his back in his pocket, then shuffles forward with a bag of cheetos and a packet of tiny donuts. "Noticed," he says, his vowels all distorted from his usual clear precision. "You oughtta getta antenna thing."

Clint dries off his hands and rings up the food, then looks pointedly over his shoulder at the pumps. "And the gas?"

"Oh yeah, heh, gimme twenty," Phil answers. "Gotta get it back to m'boss same way I borrah'd it" His voice is gruff and a little slurred, not like he's drunk, which is good because Justin would probably call the cops and hang out to laugh at the idiot getting busted, but like he's just kind of slow intellectually. Clint rings up twenty without comment, and Phil looks at the mirror to make sure Justin's not watching and mouths, _back when he leaves_ , then shuffles out to put the gas in his tank. Somehow he manages to make it look like he's scuffing the hem of his pants under his shoes, which he's not, and Clint finds himself hoping Justin gets the fuck out ASAP, because that's kind of amazing.

And if that's _just_ ex-military training, his standing sorrow over having joined the circus instead of the army just grew a whole new wing because the way Phil moves in this little charade, compared to the way he usually does – well, the skill is kind of hot. Kind of a lot hot. Clint carefully doesn't keep watching him.

He checks on his soup, on the onions going translucent and the carrots and celery starting to soften, then gives it another shake and turns back to Justin. "Anyway, I got no idea what Jake's beef is. Maybe he's jealous about Jacinta leaving me notes? Which, goddamn, you gotta do something about that, man, because at this point I'm not sure they don't qualify as child porn or something. Especially when she leaves photos."

Justin shakes his head. "Shit. I'll talk to her. Hey, does that guy come in here often?" He's squinting out at Phil, who's getting in his car to go.

"Nah. I don't know him," Clint says. "Why?"

"Feel like I seen him before." Justin shrugs. "Anyway, look, get here early tomorrow and work it out with the kid, okay? I don't need him all pissed off and growling at the customers."

Clint nods as though good customer service is actually a value Justin or any of his coworkers holds. "No prob, boss." He shakes the pan again, then pours in a little water so nothing scorches. "You need me to do anything else?"

Justin looks around. "Clean up the drink station, wouldja? It looks like shit." 

Clint nods and grabs a rag, heading over to start on that now (which is still better than anything about his book, so even though there is totally nothing wrong with the drink station, whatever) and is scrubbing at the countertop when the bell rings and Justin's car starts outside.

He stays put and finishes the job for good measure, then goes back to rummage in the messenger bag still on the floor behind the counter. He finds canned broth and potatoes, so he pours the broth in the pan and starts peeling, waiting for Phil to come back.

When he does, ten minutes later, his suit is neatly back in place and the shuffling persona is gone entirely; he picks up a peeled potato and starts dicing neatly as though he'd never left. Clint chuckles and grudgingly finishes his next chapter, sneaking glances at his unexpected chef all the way through.

"Why do you keep this job?" Phil asks, digging an entire battery-powered immersion blender out of his bag. 

"Why do you keep a _blender in your bag?_."

"I don't, usually. Special occasion." Phil dumps a large dollop of cream cheese from the dairy case into the soup, wraps a towel around himself to avoid spatter, and starts blending.

"Making soup via ghetto cookware in a dead-quiet convenience store at one in the morning is a special occasion?"

"I like the company." Phil taps the blender on the edge of the pan and turns to run it under water, then sets it aside and starts scooping soup into cups, using a third cup as a ladle. "And you didn't answer the question."

"About why I keep the job?" Clint shrugs. "Easy work, low pressure, pays the tuition and rent, time to study."

"What are you working toward? In school." Phil sprinkles cheese on top of a cup and hands it over, along with a spoon. 

"Certification with computers," Clint says. "Just an Associate's, but I'm figuring that'll be enough to get a job that won't make me want to claw my eyes out, anyway. This is fine, but not forever."

"And if this job became unavailable tomorrow?"

"What?"

"Well, would you be all right?"

"If this job..." Clint narrows his eyes. "What don't I know?"

"All in the fullness of time, and it really may be nothing," Phil says. "But it's not as though you don't have interesting skills."

"Oh?"

Phil holds up his phone. "As long as I was waiting, I did a little research. Sharp-shooting and trapeze? Knives? I'm guessing you could do just about any physical task, so--"

"I call bullshit," Clint says. "Cell reception sucks out here, which means you've been creeping, which, okay, maybe that's flattering, but what the fuck maybe just ask?"

Phil grins gently. "Eat your soup and don't panic," he says. "And honestly, try it for yourself." He tosses over the phone, and Clint tinkers with it for a minute, frowning at the impeccable signal and ridiculous speed. 

"Where the shit did you even _get_ this?" he asks. "Mine's not even a year old and this is like a fourteen-generation upgrade."

"Not on the market yet," Phil says. "I know a guy. You'd probably ...kind of hate him. I do. But then, you might find you get along all right. Eat your soup."

\--

Clint shows up no more than ten minutes early for his stupid meeting with Jake the next night, tired and cranky after an evening spent alternating between not-sleeping and having weird dreams in which Justin comes back and finds Phil there again and goes nuts. Jake is twitchy and mumbles something about how he was just trying to negotiate a raise, and Clint sighs and tells him maybe not slagging everyone else would be a better call, and they shake and Jake goes off to whatever the hell he does after work. Clint goes back to the vague worried feeling in his gut about Phil--which is alternating with hoping Phil keeps coming by, and wondering if the comment about his friend means he intends to introduce them in which case what's that, and... well, anyway, there's worrying, and then there's wondering. 

He's pretty much decided he's going to have to tell him not to stay if he does come back tonight, just in case of Justin, when a car exactly as shiny and classy as Phil's pulls up, but for one thing it doesn't stop at pump two, and for another, Clint can't help that he remembers plates, and this isn't Phil's. He puts down the C++ manual he's half-heartedly reading through--this is homework he can't do here for shit because even if writing code on a phone weren't only fun for teenagers, the internet connectivity sucks hard for everything, not just phones, but he finds it helps to read the material through once before he starts dicking around with the code anyway--and goes to look out the window at the guy that gets out of the car.

The guy that gets out of the car is wearing an improbably long leather coat (while he's driving around in the middle of nowhere! What the hell!) and an eyepatch, and Clint kind of hopes no locals happen along because while he takes no issue with a large black man who looks like kind of a badass in his store, he's pretty sure eighty percent of the folks that live within ten miles... would. 

"What can I do for you?" he asks as the guy comes through the door. 

"I hear you make a mean burrito. Six bites of wonderful, was the word."

Clint blinks. "Uh. Is Ph--"

"You and I have not met," the guy says. "And we're going to keep it that way; however, I have been asked by my very good friend, our mutual friend, to hand you this piece of paper, buy a burrito to go, and let you get back to your homework."

Clint takes the piece of paper, which is folded in quarters, and shoves it in his pocket, then grabs a burrito out of the case. "Made these up about twenty minutes ago," he says. "Should be pretty good."

"Good to know." The guy looks around. "Nice place you got here. Ever considered another line of work? Perhaps involving tightropes or rifles?"

"You... look nothing like an accountant," Clint says.

The guy laughs, throwing his head back, and looks at the burrito in its to-go wrapper on the counter. "You got any corn dogs?"

"Yeah, and grab a packet of donuts," Clint says, pointing. "On me."

The guy grins, grabs the kind with powdered-sugar frosting, and tosses over a couple of bucks for the corn dog and the burrito.

"So, he and I have said entire sentences in here," Clint says. "Maybe even paragraphs. Should I be worried, or are you paranoid?"

"Half a dozen of the other," the guys says. "But I'll try not to blow up anything important too soon."

"Good to know," Clint repeats back. "Tell him you're all batshit... and to be in touch."

The guy is out the door less than two minutes after he came in, and he drives north, like Phil always does with his two gallons of gas.

Clint fishes out the paper in his pocket and unfolds it, wondering for just a second if maybe he's accidentally high, or possibly suffering some kind of chemical exposure.

_Clint,_

_His name is Fury, which he won't tell you because suspicion is his way. I know it'll bug you, because paying attention to details is my way, and I've been paying attention to yours, so: Fury. Also, now that I've told you this, probably we need to talk about some other things. That can wait._

_Sorry I can't come by in person, but you need to know: Your boss is not a nice man. You probably have a pretty good idea about that, although I'm certain you have no idea the depth of his involvement in local drug trafficking or the rest of what he has fingers in (and really, you don't want to know. Really). He looks like a hick, but he's sharp, and he's connected._

_I meant to spend a few more weeks on surveillance before moving, but the impromptu meeting last night--all my fault, damn it; I got lazy because I let you distract me; we can talk about that later, too--moved up the timeline. Fury told you a number; subtract two and be gone by then, seriously, both because of the event itself and because if we don't get everything we came for, there may be (sorry) fallout for you if he puts together our interaction. I'll call you in the morning._

_Phil._

Clint reads the note twice, wonders how is this his life (and how Phil got his phone number, but then, that miracle phone of his might be some part of the answer), and considers his options. He doesn't know what the hell number Fury said, until he realizes he said the same one twice; six bites, and 'half a dozen', which means whatever is going down, it'll be at four in the morning. Okay, well at least it's not in half an hour. Still, it's not that long. And if Justin isn't nice, he's also not an idiot, and even though Clint has zero experience with drug busts, he does have twenty years of watching his own ass, and his Spidey senses are telling him _now_ is when to vacate the area before everything goes to hell ahead of schedule.

He picks up his bag, shoves in both textbooks, and grabs the remaining three corn dogs, then adds two bags of chips, some gummi worms, and a couple bottles of water to toss in as well because if bad shit is going down, he's really not going home or anywhere else tonight. 

Then he empties the till into his pocket because hey, if the place is going down, he might as well make up for the fact he's about to be unemployed (shut up this logic is sound and what, this is going to be their big worry? It's a couple hundred bucks), and goes around the side of the store to his bike.

As soon as he's there, he thinks he hears someone behind the building, which, that would definitely _not_ be a coincidence, so he slowly sets the bag behind the propane tank enclosure, and goes around the other way. "Hullo?" He comes wide around the side of the building, like he's looking for no trouble at all, looking every way but the old shed halfway up the hill, then walks across the back of the store and around the front again. He stands where someone in the door of the shed could see him, scratches his head like he can't figure out what he heard, and goes back into the shadow of the building.

Yeah, there's someone up there. This is what he gets for keeping his fucking head down and making tuition and rent even though he knew the guy was probably into bad things. Damn it. Living dangerously is not the word for what it feels like is coming.

So, all right. Breathe. Options. None of this changes the fact that he needs to leave, just makes a reason he needs to be a little careful. He leaves the bag and the bike where they are, then he goes back inside and goes into the bathroom in the back, propping the door and popping the high window open like he usually does when he cleans. His interest in mopping the floor is hovering around zero tonight, but now that he knows there's someone one there, he figures looking as normal as possible immediately after his new customer is probably the way to go.

He mops less competently than he ever has before in his life including the time he was concussed because the fucking nets were too loose and Lou was pissed at _him_ for it, but leaves the door and window open and starts cooking more corn dogs. What the hell, might as well smell normal, too.

Finally, at a quarter to two, he concludes that he seriously has to get out of here, because otherwise he is going to go completely fucking crazy waiting. He sort of wishes Phil hadn't sent him the message until now in the first place. Or an hour from now. Christ.

He separates out the key he never uses (they're open 24/7; he doesn't know why he even _has_ a key), then walks out the front door with his hand on the bell to still it, and stops to listen. He doesn't hear anything for a minute, and then low voices, muffled. A silent trip around the side of the building shows there's no one in sight, and okay, now is when, then. He goes back and tapes a paper sign on the door ("Family emergency, sorry, someone'll be in to open in a while"), then locks up because if anything bad is going to go down in the store he doesn't want to create circumstances where anyone is in the place at the time. This procedure takes all of thirty seconds, but his heart is pounding a little by the time he's back around to the bike again. Upside: the adrenaline helps, because between lousy sleep and nerves, he's kind of a mess.

He picks up his bag and rolls the bike across the road as fast as he can do it quietly, going over the shoulder and down into narrow strip of... not even ditch, really; it's more a little ledge between the road and a drop of a lot farther than he wants to fall, and it's only about eight feet wide at the good points. There's only a couple hundred yards of this heading south before he'll run out of room and have to take it back up onto the road proper, but that far down, he's pretty sure he'll be protected from view by the curve of the mountain.

This thinking like a fucking _spy_ bullshit is not how he ever planned to live his life, is what he thinks about that. "Way too old for this shit," he mutters to himself as he walks.

\--

He ends up walking the bike the wrong way on the shoulder for twenty minutes, which still seems too close in the quiet night air to start the thing up, but he doesn't think it can wait any more; if whoever's in the shed comes this way, he'll have no excuse at all to be walking the bike along like this. Hoping he's just being extremely paranoid and Phil will explain to him tomorrow how none of this is a problem, he checks the saddlebag to make sure his backpack is in good shape, hops on the bike, and guns it, south to the junction, then west and over the river. 

At a quarter to three he starts looking for somewhere with good cell reception, and when he finds a place that has it, he stops there and looks around for someplace he can tuck his bike in and hide from the world. It takes him a few minutes, but he's had reasons to live off the grid a few times before, and he knows how to make his bike and his shelter blend in for casual passers-by. It's not that he's being paranoid, he tells himself as he looks at it critically again, but seriously, there are spies and drug kingpins, and he's definitely ditching school today unless someone (Phil) can prove to him nothing alarming is going to happen.

Being scared isn't exactly new to Clint, but it's been a long time since he was a teenager on his own in the big world, and he's not that impressed to be revisiting the feeling now that he's old enough his body has objections to things like chilly damp sleeping environments. Also, cold corn dogs, gummi worms, and water are not feeling all that satisfying for breakfast, and he wishes he'd swiped a toothbrush while he was at it because bleh, rinsing and spitting with the water isn't all that effective, but finally, as the sky starts to lighten, he feels like maybe he could catch some sleep. He checks once more that his phone has signal and is set to vibrate, then holds it against him and closes his eyes.

When it vibrates, he's only been asleep, he guesses, for maybe forty, forty-five minutes, long enough to be dopey and stupid but not long enough to feel rested at all, but he squints at it and tries to figure out who _N Rushman_ is. It's not anyone he knows, but then, he's been keeping his nose out of Justin's business (life choices, Clint-of-the- _present_ : not that awesome either, shit), so for all he knows it's his ball-breaker or his mistress in Vegas or something. 

It vibrates again a few minutes later, but it's the quick burst of a text. He looks at the screen. _Clint, my name is Natalie. I'm with Phil. Pick up._

Which doesn't fucking mean Justin doesn't just know who Phil is, obviously, but Clint decides if Justin is actively trying to flush him out he's already totally fucked, so when it starts jumping in his hand again, he presses the button. "'lo?"

Her voice is low and he's pretty sure from the way she speaks that once upon a time she had a thick accent. Hard to say what kind, but he's been all over, and she sounds explicitly neutral. Weird, but if anything, that's what convinces him she's with Fury, and by extension Phil. "Clint," she says, "Please tell me what you made on the griddle for Phil."

"What? Uh. He made soup. Oh, wait, _I_ made pancakes."

"Thank you. He wants you to know it would probably be safe for you to go home, but he thinks you'll feel better if you lie low for a few days. Choose a motel, and if you have a pen?"

"For what?"

"An authorization number. There's a card in your saddlebag, but it requires an authorization number to use. R34V9F1792."

Clint scowls. "Jesus, no, I don't have a pen handy. I could carve it in gummi-bears, but--"

"Repeat it back."

" R34V9F1792," Clint says.

"See, I thought you could. Get some sleep, Clint. Go somewhere good." Natalie hangs up on him, and Clint stares at his phone, then sighs. A card? What the hell is his life even? He looks, because what's he gonna, _not_? And sure enough, there's a card under his pack, issued from an obscure bank, black with a metallic thread running through, embossed letters with the name Cliff Barlow. There's also an expired and beat-up Montana driver's license with the same name on it. And the pic from his actual license. O...kay.

He considers his options for a few minutes, during which he writes the stupid code in the dirt with his finger just in case, then sighs again, finds a pen in his pack and writes it down for real, then packs up his shit and gets on the bike. Either he's safe or he isn't, and now he's going to go be one of those things in a motel, although since the nearest town that would have one is also where he lives, which seems like a shitty idea, he heads further west then back north, past the windmill farms and on into the canyon. It's coming up on ten by the time he stops, but there's a place where the doors all open into the hall and the rooms have hairdryers and safes, which is roughly 700% nicer than anywhere he's ever stayed, so he goes in, hands over the card, rattles off the authorization, and signs Cliff Barlow's name.

At least this means he can take off his boots to crawl into the bed, and even though it's still not actually his usual bedtime, he's fucking wiped. He drops his pants and jacket on the floor too because if he's fucked enough that someone's going to show up here for him, he might as well have a nap first, and bunches up the second pillow against his side.

\--

"Clint," Phil says. Which, that makes no sense because the person talking is an iguana. "Clint."

Clint opens his eyes wide, blinks, and scrambles back a couple of inches. "Jesus. Also, I was dreaming of, um. Not this."

Phil arches a brow and continues sitting calmly with his hip and half of one thigh on the edge of Clint's bed. "Better, or worse?"

"Not like that. Uh, I was, never mind, what time--okay, it's only like three, did you get any sleep? Why are you here? Did you drug me so I would keep talking?"

Phil chuckles warmly. "No, but I did make slightly inappropriate use of government resource to find you. Fury tagged your bike, in case you didn't use the card I left."

Clint gapes. "Seriously? But I fucking _saw_ him all the way from in to out."

"Yeah, well." Phil shrugs, palms up. "This is the kind of person you're dealing with. Sorry. Also, and perhaps I should have said this first, we got everything we meant to last night, no casualties, ultimately very little damage. Post-op is still mopping up, so they might change their minds, but current analysis says you're safe, and while we still wanted you out of the way and it was better that you were, you probably don't have to keep running."

"Long habit," Clint says. "Trouble comes, you get out of Dodge."

"Probably a good instinct, regardless. So, we rounded up your boss, his flunkies, and four distribution networks including about thirty guys above the level of general gofer, although I think several of the gofers may rethink their life choices after their narrow escapes."

"Uh. Good to know. What is it I don't want to know about what the guy had fingers in?"

"Drugs aren't the only thing he was trafficking."

Clint stares. "Okay, the worse thing that comes to mind is humans. Humans? Shit. You're right, I didn't want to know." He didn't; that's nauseating and cuts a little too close to a couple of years of his own experience, to boot. "I hope you know I'd have reported that, consequences be damned."

"I suspected as much." Phil nods. "We have a file."

"Of course you do, and while we're talking about your recurring slight privacy invasions and all, how did you get in here?"

"Also the kind of person you're dealing with. Sorry."

"Is that a set phrase? Every time you say kind of person you're dealing with, you then have to say sorry?"

"No, but I _am_ sorry I didn't set you up a little better. The first night when I came in, we were under the impression you might be one of the flunkies. Sorry."

"There you go again. Also, fuck that, I'm working on _improving_ my circumstances."

"So I noted. Which is why I came back."

"Oh?" Clint feels his stomach drop a little, since for him, it was all flirting and good feelings; apparently for Phil it was a mission.

"Well, and I wanted to." Phil ducks his head a little. "I was pretty sure you wouldn't be working a physics book--chemistry, maybe? But probably not physics--if you were looking to move up in criminal enterprise alone, and even if you were, you might have been... salvageable, for lack of a better term. You had the brains to be something better. But either way, we had fun chatting, and I wanted to chat again."

"So you kept coming back, made me soup, and then gave me a credit card and followed me to a motel room."

"Well, shit, it sounds creepy when you put it like that," Phil says. "Not really what I was going for."

"What _were_ you going for?" Clint tugs at the blanket and pushes himself upright so he's sitting with his back against the headboard. "I mean, what's the other reading?"

Phil shrugs. "I said I'd call, and while I did have my associate contact you--"

"Where's she from, anyway?"

Phil stares for a second. "Where do you think?"

"No one thinks Mexican accents are all that unusual or interesting around here, so that's not what she's covering. So either she's from somewhere exotic, or she's a total hick, but I feel like it's not that one."

"Interesting. And accurate, but that's her story to tell. You know how I said you had interesting skills?"

"Yeah, falling with style, and shooting shit."

"Apparently and paying attention to how people talk. I'm impressed."

"Oh, well good. I'd hate to be a disappointment again." Clint shoves his hand through his hair. "Sorry. I'm all confused from sleeping at the wrong time."

"No problem." Phil leans down, wincing slightly, and picks up a plastic grocery-store sack from next to his feet. "Here, I brought you a toothbrush and a t-shirt. I guessed on the size." He stands. "I'll leave you to get cleaned up if you want."

"No, wait, just, are you leaving?"

"Do you want me not to?"

"I. Kind of?" Clint groans. "Jesus, that sounds pathetic. But yeah, I kind of don't want you to leave. Right now, you're the only person I know, I think. And I want you to stay, besides that. Or I mean, I don't want you to disappear." He waves his hands. "Pretend that made sense and didn't make me sound fifteen."

Phil purses his lips. "Well, I wouldn't want to deprive you of your only friend."

"Good. Uh, any chance you brought me a razor, too?" Clint pulls up his feet and turns to put them on the floor. "Not that I'm complaining about the toothbrush, I mean."

Phil smiles. "I did think about a razor, but I thought probably scruff would bother you less than fuzzy teeth, and I was being quick."

"True." Clint stands, takes the plastic bag, and starts toward the bathroom. "Back in five."

"Take your time," Phil says. "I have nowhere to be for a little while."

Clint shrugs, goes into the bathroom, and closes the door.

And stands there for a good thirty seconds before turning on the water, because seriously, Phil showed up _on his bed?_ It's pretty fucked up that right now he's about ninety percent sure he can no longer claim the circus was the weirdest part of his life.

Finally, he turns on the water and pulls off his clothes, then takes the toothbrush (and paste; Phil didn't give himself enough credit) into the shower with him. As soon as he's done brushing, he leans out and puts both on the corner of the vanity, then scowls and leans further to snag the soap and shampoo, which, had he thought about it he supposes he might have expected to need? But obviously he's not thinking very well. He soaps up and scrubs at his hair, then stands under the water for several minutes, wondering if Phil is tired of waiting yet.

Then considers for another minute whether it would seem weird if he stayed in the shower even longer, because contemplating Phil waiting for him in a hotel room is kind of giving him a reason.

Finally, he rinses off all the soap and turns off the water, ignoring the fact that his dick has ideas about Phil at all, and pulls the t-shirt out of the bag. Under the t-shirt is an unopened plastic packet of underwear, also previously unmentioned, and Clint snorts. He doesn't typically wear boxers, and if he did he probably wouldn't wear ones with superheroes on them, but they appear to be the right size, and he hadn't really wanted to put yesterday's briefs back on anyway, so fine, Wolverine on his ass it is. He yanks the t-shirt down over his head and his underwear up over his hips (both fit fine), and towels off his hair once more.

He picks up his clothes from last night in a pile and wanders back out into the room, wondering if it's inappropriate that he's in his (his? the, anyway) underwear, or if by chance Phil has a spare pair of socks too, not that he hasn't worn worse all round, or if he even wants to know what he's supposed to do next, and stops short. Phil's laid out on top of the cover of the bed Clint just left, suit jacket draped neatly over the chair by the window, shoes lined up next to Clint's, and he's snoring. It's not that late in the afternoon, but the room is dim, between the overcast outside and the thick curtains, and Clint can see how falling asleep would have been the easy thing.

For a second, Clint just watches him, then it occurs to him that he's knows a few guys with military backgrounds, and even with the dark, most of them didn't like sleeping around people they didn't know very well. He's kind of touched.

\--

His jeans aren't particularly dirty--well, not any more than they have to be after working and mopping and then sleeping for a while outside and whatever--but Clint's not accustomed to the feel of boxers under jeans, so he's a little uncomfortable as he stands in the lobby looking out the window, trying to figure out what to do about food. He has the cash in his pocket, which probably he should mention to Phil, except he feels kind of sheepish about it, and what he wants is breakfast, but he doesn't really want to eat alone. He turns to the girl at the desk, a dark-haired young woman with bright red lips and bored eyes behind the rectangular frames of her glasses. "So, where's nearby that serves breakfast all day and will make it to go?" he asks.

The girl shrugs. "Just about everywhere with a grill will scramble you some eggs," she says. "Hey, I thought that guy was looking for you."

For a brief instant, Clint goes cold, thinking Justin's here looking for him, which is ridiculous because Phil said he was in custody. "What guy?" he asks.

"Older? Suit? Kind of intense?"

Clint relaxes. "Oh, yeah. Uh what the hell does that have to do with breakfast?"

She grins. "I think you should go down two blocks to Maggie's" she says. "They'll make you guys something cute you can bring him in bed."

"Uh."

"What, you don't want to bring him breakfast in bed after he came looking for you and all? I thought he was sweet. Did you guys have a fight or something? Seemed like he was worried about you. Anyway, don't go over there." She points to a place with a big red sign across the street. "Complete bigots. Don't think they'd figure anything out by looking at you because obviously they think you have to be wearing pink to be a 'problem,' but who wants to support that shit, right?"

"You've concluded we're together."

"If you're not, I will eat my iPod. Anyway, your call, but Maggie's awesome, and since you asked, that's what I'm recommending." 

Clint glances down at her iPod. "You must not value that thing much, if you gamble with it. Also, you're not from around here, are you?"

"I value it a lot, but I'm right, so I don't know what your point is, and as a matter of fact, I am _not_ from around here. California, New Mexico, Cali some more, and now here because my mom moved here and I'm between jobs. Useful jobs, I mean. This doesn't count. But as you're obviously not hitting on me because, see previous--the cute couple thing, not the boys can't like both boys and girls concept or whatever--hey, why are we talking about my depressing job situation? Plus, anyway, don't you need to, like, hustle? With those arms and that ass, I can see how you might have worn him out and all, but what if he wakes up and you're gone?"

Clint blinks and straightens up--it's not like this matters for the reason she thinks, but it's true Phil might be a little wigged out to wake up alone; it's not like Clint has a big stack of stuff he left in the room. "Good point. If he comes down, tell him not to panic, okay?"

"He didn't seem like the panicking type," she says, "but I'll tell him to get his butt back to bed to wait for seconds." She winks, and Clint rolls his eyes and goes to the door. He points to the right. "Two blocks?"

"Yep. Tell her Darcy sent ya. She makes a mean cup of coffee, too."

\--

Maggie does, in fact, make a mean cup of coffee. Clint realizes as he sips that Maggie was a couple of years ahead of him in school – this isn't his actual honest-to-god hometown that he looked at in the rearview twenty years ago, but he's concluded a lot of people are dying to get out of crappy little towns, but then settle down an hour, maybe two, away in equally crappy little towns. Including him, from the looks of things. It's weird.

In any case, he opts not to mention he remembers her, and when she gives him a considering look, he does his best not to look like he did at fourteen. 

This is helped by the fact that at fourteen he was scrawny and considerably blonder. Maggie looks a lot like she did at, what, sixteen, seventeen? so recognizing her isn't hard. Actually, he's tempted to tell her she still looks like she's in college, except, well. He's in college, so that might not be a compliment, and anyway, he's still feeling kind of spooked about the events of the previous night and likes his anonymity.

He finishes a cup while he waits, and she makes him up another to go – well, two, including Phil's – and gives him a 5% discount 'because she gives all Darcy's friends a discount,' and he tips her ten bucks and takes his bag and drink tray back down the street.

Darcy's reading something that he's pretty sure is on justjared when he comes back in, but she doesn't look guilty when she looks up. "Hey, see? Isn't she great?"

"Gave me a discount. Any sign of Ph..." It occurs to Clint that his name is officially Cliff here, and Phil might have called himself, who knows, Frank or Phinneus or something, so he says, "my, you know, friend?"

"Yeah, he called down. I told him to keep the blankets warm for you." She goes back to pictures of celebrities walking, and Clint goes back up to his room. 

"Hey," he says, pushing the door open with his hip as he balances coffee and the bag of boxed-up food. "The girl at the desk suggested a place down the street. I know you like pancakes, but I took a chance on omelets instead. You want ham or sausage?" He toes off his boots next to Phil's polished shoes.

"You pick," Phil says. He's up now, sitting in a chair at the slightly-warped laminate table over by the window. "I'm not fussy."

"Yeah, and I am," Clint says with a roll of his eyes as he sets down the coffee and hands Phil one. "Here, then." He doesn't open the boxes before setting one in front of Phil, figuring that's as close to a random outcome as he can get. "There's cream and sugar in the bag, if you want."

"Such luxury," Phil says. He does reach for the bag, though, and dump a couple of the little French Vanilla creamer cups into his coffee. "You're spoiling me."

Clint chuckles. "Yeah, one lousy root beer and vanilla creamer one tablespoon at a time. Foolproof way to make a guy go all soft and sweet." He slugs down his coffee black, and opens up his food box. "Sausage for you, then,"

Phil eats a couple of bites, then watches Clint eat a few. He picks up his coffee. "So...why am I still here? You just wanted to feed me one more time?"

Clint lifts a brow and keeps eating. "Yeah. I usually try to make sure I end any association with omelets. It's a system. Why do you think?"

Phil forks up another bite of eggs and cheese and puts them in his mouth. "I don't know. I thought you might feel like I fucked up your actually-stable life, so I'm not sure what you might--"

Clint pauses with his fork in front of his mouth, all loaded up with bacon and spinach. "Are you asking for reassurance? Seriously?" He points out the bagel next to the omelet on Phil's plate and says, "I brought you caffeine, protein, and carbs and dude, I asked you to please stay, in my, well your, sort of, but that's beside the point, hotel room. I have plans, or, I don't know, goals, hopes--anyway. Eat up." He shoves more food into his mouth before he says something embarrassing. More embarrassing. Whatever.

Phil eats a little faster, and Clint's just thinking this whole day/night (uh. 24-hour period?) is turning from kind of a nightmare into a pretty good dream when the phone rings.

Which, that's weird. He looks at Phil. "Anyone that should be calling you?"

"No, but it might be the front desk."

"True." Clint crams another bite of omelet in his mouth and goes to pick up. "Yeah?"

"Hi Mr. Wilson," Darcy says. "This is the front desk, transferring a call."

"What? I--"

"Here you go," she says, and then she hangs up, but the line doesn't go dead, and instead he can hear her talking from further away. _I've been here all night,_ she's saying, _and I don't have a Barton registered. And I don't know anything about your guy in a suit, there. Hey! Where are you--I mean, I guess you could look--hey! No kicking in doors! What are you--_

Clint drops the phone and turns back to Phil. "Four supply lines? Shit."

"What?"

"I think there must have been five? There are five similar weirdly-labeled numbers in Justin's phone..." There's a crash in the next room, and he adds, probably unnecessarily, "Someone's here."

"Shit." There's no time to discuss a plan, so each of them goes with his own.

Clint glances around for something to throw, wishing it had occurred to him to bring a damn knife when he got out of Dodge, then realizes there's a good three feet of 'entryway' at the door before the vanity/bathroom area opens up. He glances at Phil, then goes up the wall quietly, hands and feet to either side. 

Phil blinks at him for a second, then dives for the bed, for the pillow where he'd been sleeping, and Clint realizes he must --of course he must-- have a gun there.

And then the door crashes open.

Phil freezes, not quite to the pillow, and doesn't look at Clint, but _does_ flick his eyes toward the corner that the guy coming in can't see around. It's a good play, especially against a couple of goons like this, and Clint grins as the guy steps in further and goes around the corner, leaving his buddy behind him to cover Phil. Which would work fine if Phil were alone, but _that's_ when Phil glances up at Clint, and the guy's chin comes up just as Clint lets go and drops on him.

His neck makes a very unfortunate noise as Clint lands on him, and then the first guy's gun swings wildly back toward Phil and goes off, and Clint has the second guy's gun and Phil finishes the lunge for his weapon and it's all over. Phil has the first guy covered, and Clint's gun is toward the door, and there are distant sirens getting louder, so Darcy must have called the cops? Probably a good idea.

There's no one in the hall, so Clint turns back to Phil just in time to see him clock the guy with the butt of his gun, and then he's there, checking the pulse of the one Clint landed on--is there any point? no one can have a neck at that angle and not be dead, can they?--then shrugs and moves his head a little, straightening out the airway. "He might survive," he says. "If he doesn't try to get up and if the local police are prompt." Clint's stomach isn't super excited about the original angle or the weird ease with which the head moves, but all he does is sigh and lower his weapon.

"That kind of sucked," he says.

"Could have been worse," Phil says. He glances up over the door and adds, "Nice move, by the way." He takes the gun, puts it with his on the bathroom counter, and cuffs the unconscious goon, and then he puts his shoes on. "There's going to be paperwork," he says. "I think breakfast is going to have to wait."

Clint nods, says "Not sure I could actually eat more right now anyway," and moves closer to the bathroom in case his stomach gets more upset. He's seen dead people a number of times, and even shot at people a couple of times because it's not like his life has been the epitome of stable, but breaking someone's neck with nothing but his own body is new. And kind of grosser than expected, based on what it looks like in the movies.

"You know either of these guys?"

Clint looks again at the neck guy, who he's glad he doesn't know, and shakes his head, then looks at the cuffed one and frowns. "Yeah. Only ever heard him called Big Ed, though, I think."

Phil nods. "It's a start. Your bike's outside?"

"...Yes?"

Phil tosses Clint his boots and snaps a picture of Big Ed and another of the neck guy, then wipes off the gun Clint handled and puts it back in neck guy's hand. He snags the briefcase Clint hadn't even paid attention to next to the TV stand and puts his own gun in it, then he starts down the hall, away from the entry. "Come on."

Clint thinks about it for all of a third of a second and then grabs his backpack and follows; he's not a fan of run-ins with the cops, and he has no idea how to explain why he's in a room under an assumed name with two disabled bad guys, some handcuffs, and probably a bullet hole in a wall. And apparently Phil has a plan, and apparently he trusts it. 

As they walk down the stairs at the end, Phil calls Darcy and thanks her for the quick thinking to warn them and tells her to refer to the police to a local number Clint assumes is an office of whatever agency he's with. Has to be one of the alphabet ones, right? Then he calls another number and speaks a series of words that Clint assumes are a code to whoever --maybe Fury or that Natalie person-- since _pop quiz, squeaked by, two down, makeup later_ doesn't seem like all that reasonable or complete a report. Then they're at the bike, and Clint stows his pack and throws a leg over. Phil, without a word, climbs on behind him, clutching the briefcase against his belly.

"Car?"

"Lola's two blocks over, but she stands out way too much, and anyway, we're sticking together."

Clint shrugs and hits the road.

\--

They only ride for a little while, maybe forty miles and a couple towns over, Phil holding around Clint's waist with one arm. Then Phil says, "Okay, here's good." Clint glances back and nods at the crappy-looking motel, and Phil nods, so they turn in. "Want to take the bike back there while I check us in?" 

Phil gets off the bike a little awkwardly and starts toward the office with his briefcase, so Clint figures it's either that or leave him here and go on alone, so he pulls the bike around the office. It's hardly out of sight back there, but isn't likely to be spotted from the road, especially in the dusky light that's going to get dimmer soon enough. Then he grabs his pack out of the saddlebag and starts back around.

Phil meets him halfway, and Clint, startled, realizes the black smears on his collar are blood. "Uh. Phil?" He points at the stains.

"It's a scratch," Phil says. "But I'd like to get it cleaned up, if we can get inside."

Clint raises his eyebrows. "Uh, okay, but maybe you could have mentioned?"

"You seemed distressed. Come on."

And okay, yes, Clint _was_ distressed about the guys and about pretty much everything about the last 24 hours, but he would have liked to know about the fact that the guy holding around his waist _had a bullet wound_. Jesus. "Yeah, should I assume you have appropriate supplies in your Mary Poppins bag there?"

"I tend to think of it more as the briefcase Hermione would have taken into the forest," Phil says. "Mine is primarily concerned with practical nonwhimsical things. So yes, I do." He leads the way to a room near the end and opens the door. 

"Ground floor," Clint says. "Easy out."

"Yep." 

"Good choice. But I guess this is the kind of people I'm dealing with, sorry?"

"Yep." Phil's words are clipped now, and Clint isn't sure if it's because he's injured or angry, but probably this isn't what he planned on for the day in any case, and it's basically his fault. He follows him in and closes the door, then drops his backpack and holds out a hand for the briefcase. Phil shakes his head. "I can take care of it."

"Don't doubt it, but I do have a little experience with splints and stitching shit up," Clint says. "Least I can do."

Phil sets down the briefcase on the table and shrugs off his jacket. "It's really just a scratch."

"And it hurts." Now that they've slowed down, Clint can see the shadows under Phil's eyes again, and while he looked beat before, the addition of what Clint figured must be a bullet hole has made them a whole lot worse. Ergo, it hurts. He glances at the briefcase, which has a combination code on it in addition to a keyhole, because of course it does, and adds, "You open that, and I'll grab soap and water." He goes into the bathroom, which is way less decorated than the bathroom at the other place, but really, a shower and a toilet will meet his needs so it doesn't matter. There is, as expected, a plastic ice bucket, so he grabs that and fills it with hot water, then picks up the tiny paper-wrapped bar of soap and a washcloth and goes back to the table. Phil has the briefcase open and is tugging at his tie one-handed.

"Hey, don't." Clint sets down his stuff and bats Phil's hand away. "It's one thing to be a tough guy when you gotta, but there's no reason you have to handle this one your own, right?" He loosens the tie. "Adrenaline run out?"

"Something like that," Phil says. "Although, I do have to say there's nothing quite like being shot at for pumping it up in the first place."

"True." Clint pulls the tie off over Phil's head and unbuttons his shirt. "You're wearing Kevlar."

"Why do you think I drew their attention?" Phil asks.

"Yeah, but that's no good for the places not wearing Kevlar."

"Obviously." Between them they get the shirt off, and then the undershirt; both have bloody spots that would be upsetting except that Clint knows how a little blood will spread, and he reassures himself it's not as bad as it kind of looks. The bullet appears to have hit the edge of the vest and glanced off, taking a stripe off Phil's shoulder along the way, but he's right, it _is_ basically a scratch, just one that's broad and deep enough that it's going to keep bleeding forever if it doesn't get closed up, and also Clint's pretty sure the bullet has to have wreaked some kind of havoc on the ligaments that make up the shoulder socket, so that has to hurt. Obviously everything worked, so it can't have torn anything through, but still. 

So he undoes Phil's vest and strips that off him too, then lets him rest the arm on the table and dabs with hot water. After that, he cleans it again with hot soapy water, apologizing the whole way even though Phil doesn't complain, then goes to the bathroom again to get clear water and rinse the cloth. 

"You good?" he asks, wringing some clean water over it with extremely low concern for the floor getting wet.

"Good enough."

"So, I think this could, in principle heal on its own with butterflies, but a couple stitches will really help help it along," Clint says. "You?"

"Do it," Phil says. 

Clint rummages in the first aid kit and comes up with surgical thread and a hook of a needle as well as some tear-open packages of disinfectant. "This stuff sting like alcohol?"

"Pretty much."

"Kay, then this is going to suck," Clint tears open a package. "Hold still."

"As opposed to what I'm doing now?"

"Well. In case you were about to up and decide to the do the Macarena." Clint threads the needle and looks at Phil. "So, you want to tell me what the actual plan for today was?"

Phil's eyes are closed, but he opens them to answer. "Honestly?"

"Honestly. Also, here goes." Clint punches a hole into one side of the wound and comes up through the other.

"You don't need to warn me. Not my first rodeo. And the plan was to see if after how badly I fucked up the op you'd be willing to consider continuing to interact."

"What?" Clint knots the thread and starts a new stitch.

"Continuing to interact. I really did come back every night because I liked the company."

"Kay." Clint says again. "I liked the company too, and I'm not really sure you fucked up so much as had some bad luck because the idiot kid freaked out the boss. Anything else? That was in the plan, I mean."

"And to see if you'd be willing to testify."

"So, hang out, and be willing to testify. In that order?" He makes another puncture and pulls the thread through. 

"If it had been only the testimony, I could have compelled that," Phil says. 

"Maybe not," Clint says. "I've been settled there for a bit, but if I _really_ didn't want to--"

"I have resources. If I had wanted to compel. I don't, although I hope you'll help us. Actually, given your background, I hope you'll be willing to do more than that." Phil's voice is slurring a little, and Clint narrows his eyes at him and drops the question of what 'more' would actually entail. 

"How long have you been up, anyway?"

"Took a nap."

"Except that, and given the vest, even that can't even have been that comfortable." Clint ties off another stitch and examines his handiwork. It'll do, especially if there are doctors in whatever agency Phil's with that can do a better job when he gets there.

Phil considers for a second. "Close to sixty. Not that bad."

"Except you'd relaxed." Clint knows how that works, how you can be up for a long time but once you give yourself downtime, it can hit you hard. Plus, he thinks back, and, "And sixty is before we made soup. Jesus."

"I can still--"

"Uh-huh. But you don't have to." Clint pokes around again in the kit and comes up with some generic Vicodin. "Any reason you can't take this? Just for tonight?" Phil pauses, then shrugs, so Clint hands him a pill and one of the bottled waters from his backpack, then urges him to stand up after he swallows the pill, which will probably act pretty fast on a guy awake for two and a half days and probably operating on a mostly-empty stomach. "Come on, let's rinse this good one more time in the shower and then we'll bandage."

Phil stands shakily and moves toward the bathroom, and Clint follows. He's not really sure whether Phil will need help, since after all given the location of the wound, he can just stand under the spray, but then Phil kicks off his pants, and Clint realizes he hasn't been _staggering_ ; he's been _limping_ ; there's a long bandage over what has to be a hellacious gash in his thigh, too.

"Seriously?" he says, pointing.

"It's nothing."

"Yeah, obviously."

"Really. They sewed a painkiller right into it," Phil explains.

Clint somehow doubt it's working, or that it was a very good painkiller since it's let him be up and around enough, but he's more worried about the fact that the bandage is pretty bloody, and he's pretty sure it's not supposed to be. And that implies there was already some blood loss earlier, too--maybe a lot; it's a big bandage.

"So, were you supposed to come find me?" he asks conversationally, "or is your record with emergency rooms like mine?"

"I don't know. Does yours involve leaving at the first opportunity?"

"Or before," Clint agrees. He can't really blame Phil for that, but he also finds himself experiencing a tiny shred of sympathy for the two or three people in his life who have ever been annoyed with him for his unwillingness to deal with doctors. "Okay. Here, sit. Let's look at this, too." He steers Phil to the closed toilet seat and pulls away the bandage. Sure enough, the gash is a good eight inches long and deep at one end, and the three stitches at the top have torn; it's bleeding pretty freely there.

Phil looks down at it. "All right, maybe a little more than nothing," he says.

Clint sighs. "Don't fall over while I go get your needle," he directs, and he goes back out to fetch that and the antiseptic. When he comes back, he doesn't say anything else, just restitches the gash as well. 

After that, it's all about helping Phil into the shower and going in after him, holding him upright while they get cleaned up. Clint thinks about the shower he took, what, three hours ago? Four? He's all screwed up for time right now, but in any case, this isn't how he'd pictured a shower with Phil. By any stretch of any possible imagination. He kind of hates Justin and all his cronies for this bullshit, but he stands there, holding Phil upright and refraining from pointing out that only seriously unreasonable people get stabbed and shot in two separate incidents on the same day (John McClane, for instance, and Clint's pretty sure McClane is a cautionary tale, not a role model) until they're both pink and drowsy. Then he gets them out, helps Phil dry off, and leads him to the bed, letting him fall in bare-ass naked on his back and bandaging both the thigh and the shoulder with more supples from the Poppins bag (who the hell is Hermione?) while he falls asleep.

After that, Clint checks the lock, peers out through the curtain into the lot (no movement, and no loiterers), and crawls in the other side, not bothering with clothes for himself either, out of a general sense of fairness-- if Phil has to wake up buck naked and be disoriented by Clint's presence right there next to him, that should go both ways, right? His stomach feels a little hollow, and he considers trying to figure out food again, but he has no interest in ordering anything and giving up his location, and less interest in leaving Phil alone, even if he maybe is, based on this afternoon's events, kind of a badass who could generally handle whatever, so he decides it can wait.

Phil reaches for him, sleepy, and mutters, "Thanks. Glad yr...here."

Clint lets their fingers tangle and goes to sleep.

\--

What Clint wants to do, as he moves toward consciousness to find he and Phil have migrated together in the night, arms entwined and knees brushing, faces tipped together-what he _wants_ to do is just scoot in a little closer and see what happens.

What he does instead, with a blink and then a startled yelp, is sit bolt upright to stare at the redhead in the chair. She's watching them, her head tilted, and when she doesn't move, Clint says, "Either you're Natalie, or we're fucked." 

Phil opens his eyes and rolls over with a wince. "She's Natalie. Actually, Natasha. Natalie is a cover."

"You asked to be extracted," Natalie-Natasha says. "I did not anticipate you would stop to ...canoodle. Or that you would cavalierly give my legal name. Are you further injured?"

Clint chuckles. "You're asking him this? Do you think he's going to tell you?" Phil just shakes his head and denies canoodling.

She nods. "I see your point, but of course he is going to tell me, because he knows that I will refrain from kicking his ass so hard if I am aware he is hobbled; I like my prey on top of their game." She looks back at Phil. "He's quite clever," she says, "to realize who I might be, but perhaps slow to respond to a perceived threat, wouldn't you say?"

"Nice of you," Clint says to the first part. He ignored the second, since seriously, he has nothing to prove here and the last day or so can speak for themselves. If days spoke. He looks around. "Don't suppose you wanna toss me my jeans?" 

She stares at him, so he shrugs and gets up, retrieves them himself and pulls them up over his bare ass. He picks up Phil's trousers too, long as he's up. He frowns when he realizes there's a stiff spot of blood where the bandage had been failing last night, and brings them back to the bed with him. 

Phil takes them and pulls them on under the covers, wincing but looking much less exhausted than previously so Clint figures it's just sore, not ruptured again. 

Still, "You realize we're going to need to look at the leg again," Clint says.

"I'll check in with Medical," Phil replies. Natasha snorts, and Clint shares a look with her. He thinks he likes her. She tosses him his boots and helps Phil put on his, and then she squints at him and cups his stubbled cheek with one hand. 

"Thank you for keeping him well," she says.

Clint shrugs, a little embarrassed by her close scrutiny, and shakes his head. "I think it was more a team effort," he says.

"Of course it was," she agrees. "Coulson is quite adept at forming and working in teams. Although I think that was not all he was hoping for, with you." She grins past him, and Clint looks over his shoulder to see Phil rolling his eyes. 

"Tasha, maybe any commentary as to what I'm hoping for with Barton could wait until after we eat?"

She nods and turns to pick up a neatly folded bag from the floor next to her chair. "I assumed cheeseburgers would do," she says, holding out the bag to Clint and stepping out of the way. "All-American and found in every town."

Clint grins. "Girl after my own heart," he says as she continues to the door. She waves and slips out. "Phil, you think we could try to, I don't know, eat an _entire_ meal this time?"

"I plan to make every effort," Phil says. He sits at the ugly table and spreads out a napkin to eat at, and gestures for Clint to sit across from him. 

"If this is a first date, by the way--" Clint begins.

"I said _after_ , not _during_. And I think we already met the requirements of a first date quite some time ago, anyway."

"I was just going to say, it might be the classiest one I've ever had." Clint picks up his burger and lays into it, dumping the fries on Phil's napkin and snagging a couple for himself. "Things are looking up."

Phil picks up his burger awkwardly with one hand--that shoulder is clearly sorer than he's willing to say--and takes a bite, and Clint watches him eat and decides actually, after they eat he's going to ask Natasha for hep getting Phil to an actual medical facility. _Then_ the rest of the date can commence. 

\--

"Hey, Coulson, so, you--oh, seriously?" Clint blinks as his CIS instructor, the guy with the wild tangents, barges into the room already talking and then stops and stares at him. The beard that was as off-the-wall as the tangents is gone, though, replaced by a neat goatee. And sunglasses. "This is the guy you were worried about-slash-crushing on? Is that still a thing, crushing? Or am I behind the quickly-moving times? Never mind; I don't need to know the lingo to be hip. But, is he? Because I could have told you about, okay, anyone in my class. I had everyone looked into. It's, what's the term for you agent types? SOP. For billionaires, when we--" he swirls his hand around in the air, just as manic as any day in class. "Mingle. Good a word as any. So, Barton, you're apparently the next great thing?" He moves on through the room and comes back, then turns once more.

Clint stares, then glances at Phil. "What did he just say?"

"You spoke English last week. Well, and just now. You obviously do. Speak it. I don't think I said anything overly complicated. Did I? Wait, did I? What's a guy gotta do to get some coffee in this place?" 

"You might try ordering a cup," Phil says placidly, "although as this is SHIELD Medical where I am having stitches placed and also ostensibly entitled to privacy under HIPAA, I don't think it'll help."

Clint figures out why the guy looks so damn familiar just as he paces to the far end of the room and turns back, waving away the concept of privacy. "Like I wouldn't hack in if your data were on my mind. It'd take, what'd it take last time, fifteen minutes? Twenty? Please. Not my thing, fishing for your stitch count, really, but if I needed to know and I wasn't on the need-to-know list, well. We know how that would end. So what's Barton in for?"

"Tony Stark?" Clint says, looking at Phil because what the actual fuck. "Tony Stark that's been on Time Magazine and takes up more than a little bit of real estate on various yahoo and E! blogs and I don't even know what else, Tony Stark is slumming at a community college in the middle of nowhere and this is what I'm in the middle of? And he's in exam room 3 at wherever the fuck you guys brought me?" 

"Do you watch the news?" Stark asked. "Because, I mean, I'm a little more than just Tony Stark"

Clint shakes his head. "Not that relevant to my day who you are about ninety-seven percent of the time."

"Hm. Well, I'm also--"

"Stark, are you here for a reason?" Phil asks. He glances at the guy doing the stitching. "are we done here?"

The guy looks comically back and forth between Phil, Stark, and the needle for two complete go-rounds, then shrugs. "Close enough." He ties off the last stitch and starts stripping off his gloves. "Please wait for the discharge form this time? And if you can't do that, at least put this on?" He hands over the kind of sling that wraps around the body and holds the arm close. "Just for a day or so, sir. To make sure everything heals neatly.

Clint snickers at that, although honestly, it's not like having Phil bleed all over him turned out to be awesome. Except for the parts of the day--the majority of the day, if he's honest, at least when he was awake--that were. "No, I'm just here with him," he says, finally answering Stark's question. "Also, I think my homework might be a little late this week."

Stark sighs. "Yeah, yeah, we'll figure out the correspondence course later. Or something. Anyway, good to see you're in one piece, Agent, and next time, just fucking ask."

Clint watches him go, then turns to Phil. "So, I keep thinking I have the story straight, and then it turns out there's more and I don't. I think I don't like it."

Phil bunches up his uninjured shoulder in half a shrug. "That's pretty much the deal with Stark all the time. You do know he's Iron Man, right?"

"Yeah, that part of the news, I watched. But it never seemed to me his ego needed any help, so."

Phil chuckles softly. "You might be surprised. Come on, let's go." He puts his good arm into the sleeve of his bloodied and hole-punched jacket, then turns. "Pull the other side up and around?"

Clint does, and then, still without waiting for the discharge form, they're out the door. As the pass the desk, Phil slows to tell the women at admin, "There's a form 22-R9 with my name on it coming. Hold onto it for me? I'll make good."

The closest of the women raises a brow, but waves them on through, and Phil takes Clint's hand as they continue down the hall.

\--

"I realize it's a little out of the ordinary," Phil says, "to share a naked shower and bed and then share a hospital visit and only _then_ make any progress toward anything more physical." He stops next to his car, which Fury or Natasha seems to have retrieved for him and brought to the compound, and wipes what Clint is pretty sure is an imaginary streak off her. "But, did you want--"

"Yes. But don't you have quarters or whatever here on the..." Clint waves a hand around. "base or whatever this is?"

"I do, but I live in a section with relatively high-level security."

Clint shrugs. "So?"

"So I can't bring you there at this time," Phil says. "And since I'd very much rather not explain to the quartermaster why I need to house you in a double so I can then share your quarters, not because it's a problem but because it would involve a bunch of forms I really don't want to do right now, I'm suggesting we find another motel room."

"Okay, but you definitely can't drive, between the leg, the shoulder, and stuff in that shot they just gave you, so I'm not sure you should be making other important decisions quite yet." Clint's bike is still behind a motel office several hundred miles away. "So if we're going, I'm driving, either your car or if there's another one...?"

"Barton, I made the relevant decisions before they gave me anything." 

"Can you prove it?"

Phil works his hand into his pocket painfully and comes up with keys. "Besides by having come back over and over and creeped after you to a motel and slept in your bed and let you sew me up and--"

"Yeah, still. If nothing else, I'm feeding you first, and we'll see." 

Phil rolls his eyes, but hands over the keys with a muttered, "Don't break her."

The base they leave is a small town in its own right, but it's also in the middle of nowhere, so there's a bit of a drive to somewhere with a place to stay; apparently this is not the kind of base that finds a whole town built up around it for support and entertainment. When Clint mutters about this, all Phil says is that SHIELD is covert. Very covert. So driving it is. Clint fiddles with the radio until he finds some familiar crappy music and leaves Phil to rest. Finally, half an hour later, they hit the close end of a run of fast food places and a couple of big box stores, but the first motel they come to is the same chain as the one where Darcy warned them and Phil got shot, so Clint goes on past. He does, however, turn his head and ask, "Someone checked on Darcy, right?"

"Agent Sitwell brought her in a little while ago. She'll be debriefed and offered any assistance she needs." Phil's leaning back with his eyes closed, but he doesn't sound all that drowsy, just relaxed. "We try pretty hard to make sure collateral damage is the least we can make it," he says.

Clint can get behind a policy like that, and he's glad to find that this SHIELD entity, whatever the hell it is beyond the words to make the acronym, has that kind of ethic. "Good." They turn between a couple of the big boxes and into what's obviously a mixed business and residential zone, and he spots a little local place with aging but neat enough little cottages and a restaurant near the front office. "Hey, that okay?" He points.

"It's fine," Phil says without looking. "You still have the Barlow credit card? Use that."

Clint does still have the card, and hey, if SHIELD wants to pay, he can't complain. He leaves Phil resting and goes in to register, then drives them to the front of unit six. "Home sweet home," he says.

Phil opens his eyes and pulls at the handle on the door, standing smoothly and reaching down for his briefcase, then checking that both doors are locked and following Clint inside.

He drops the briefcase inside the door and purses his lips. "So, the first shot they gave me was a local, and the second was an antibiotic. Besides that, they gave me a narcotic painkiller no stronger than what you gave me last night, with more I can take if I need them, which I probably won't. I slept as much as you did last night and also on the way back to base. Are you satisfied I can make decisions?"

Clint shrugs. "Sure, if you say so, but just, you know. I just want to make sure it's never drugs talking, is all."

"It's a good impulse, but honestly, I'm fine. We can still eat - I imagine the restaurant serves as a room service of sorts, if you like."

Clint nods, then glances toward the neatly made-up bed with its shiny ornately patterned blue spread on top. "You hungry?"

"No." Phil crowds forward into Clint's space, standing chest to chest with him, nose to nose, and asks, "You?"

"Not really."

"Good." And then Phil is kissing him, hard and serious, his uninjured arm coming up so he can palm the back of Clint's head and hold him steady, his jacket falling away because his other arm isn't in it.

Which is just as well, because Clint has been around an entire fuckton of blocks, but Phil's mouth is making his knees seem totally not up to the task of holding him up, and if the whole morphing into disguise in plain sight thing had been hot, the way Phil kisses, focused and precise and never the less dirty and bound for all kinds of danger? That's just scorching. Clint moans and brings his own hands up to caress Phil's jaw and wind fingers into the fabric of a shirt he has immediate plans to ruin completely, his tongue tracing Phil's teeth and licking in deeper.

When they fall away from each other--has to happen eventually, because Clint knows from life experience that even sword-swallowers have to breathe, and he's willing to bet G-men do, too--they're both heaving for air and neither of them is willing to step back, so Clint tightens his grip in the shirt front and tugs. "This hurt?"

"Don't care."

"Sure, but does it? Because I'm pretty sure my lips will never forgive me if I have to wait to lick your collarbone, but then, my dick will never forgive me if I rip your stitches again and we have to call a time out for needlepoint."

"Needlepoint. I've never called it that before." Phil shakes his head. "We do good work at SHIELD. Stitches won't tear from this, and even if they did, well. Anesthetic's still on board."

Clint drops his head forward onto Phil's shoulder and laughs. "You're a maniac," he says, gripping harder until the buttons start to strain. "I think I like it."

"Oh, well that's good. I'd hate to bore you this quickly." Phil only has one hand to work with, and Clint wants it on him anywhere, badly, but Phil has a better idea; he's undoing the velcro on the brace holding his arm against his side. "If you're going to tell me not to take this off, I'm not. Just ditching the sleeve."

Clint approves of everything about this plan because it will lead to no shirt, so he moves back two inches and pulls his t-shirt over his head, flinging it away from him.

Phil follows it with his eyes and shakes his head when it lands tag first on the hook at the end of the closet-hanging-thing. "Really?"

Clint shrugs. "I don't really miss."

"This does count as our sixth date, right?" Phil asks, stripping off his shirt and then actually putting back the sling thing, still one-handed. 

"I. yeah, I guess?" Clint watches him work and pops the button on the camo pants someone had found him in Medical. "Why?"

"Because I'd hate to be too forward, but six dates, well. I don't think this is out of line." Phil hooks his fingers into Clint's just-open waistband and pulls him bodily forward, laving a stripe that crosses between Clint's collarbones and up his throat. "That okay?"

Clint's tongue is tangled up between jealousy at the tasting he is not yet doing and wanting to say something, so he manages a strangled sound he hopes Phil will correctly interpret as 'uh-huh' and unbuttons Phil's pants, shoving them to the floor and stuffing his hand down the back of Phil's boxers to grab a handful of lithe ass. "You?" he asks, gasping.

"Okay doesn't begin." Phil steps out of his pants and moves toward the bed, and there is seriously no way Clint isn't following. They've shared a bed twice now, but nothing like this, and he spares a moment to hope that with a sling on his arm, Phil is off the list of who that Fury guy calls when he needs something, because he is _definitely_ not letting him go anywhere right now. 

"Out of curiosity," Clint asks, "and there is no right answer here, but I was sort of figuring on finding supplies while you slept off your drugs--"

"Briefcase," Phil says. He nods back toward the door, and Clint has a moment of indecision: get the briefcase, which is going to involve letting go of Phil, or just go forward. He's pretty sure Phil would have told him if there was a reason to actually _need_ a condom, though, and letting go is just going to have to wait. He turns them as they move and deposits Phil on the side of the bed, then drops to his knees between Phil's thighs, thumbs pressing the sinew where his inner thighs spread at his crotch, framing the heavy line of his hard cock in the boxers he's still wearing. 

"Briefcase can wait," Clint says, in case it's not clear. He licks his lips.

Phil laughs and curls forward and down to kiss Clint again, nipping at his jaw and ear, and Clint just lets it happen, groping and sliding his hands everywhere and not nearly enough places as Phil drags him upright and pulls him down on top, opening his mouth to Clint's again and managing the perfect balance of tug and caress in his hair. "I agree," Phil says what must be two heated minutes later, and Clint frowns at the non-sequitur. 

"What?"

"Briefcase can wait." He twists, then, landing atop Clint, bracing himself up on one hand, and smiles. "Think you're going to have to do the heavy lifting," he says, nodding toward his sling."

"You could do something ridiculous like lie back down," Clint says, but he's smiling, and one hand is between them, shoving both sets of boxers out of the way. And then he has his hand on Phil's dick, and anything else he might be thinking about goes out the window because all the calm and control Phil usually carries on his face just flies away, and when his fingers close, drawing them together as he strokes, Phil moves, and Clint moves, and his hand is on its own schedule; it feels like the least graceful handjob ever conceived, but it's clear grace and perfection aren't as related as conventional wisdom would suggest because Clint figures there is exactly nothing else he needs besides this.

Phil is panting over him, gasping and dripping sweat from his hairline, though, and Clint slows his hand and reaches up to pull Phil down to him. "We're two seconds from fucking up your sling," he says. "Let me..." He rolls them again,snagging a pillow to prop with and re-removing the sling, and then he grins. "Now, I think we were right about ...here?"

Phil arches up under him as he squeezes and pulls, cursing and rocking until he comes, wrapping one calf behind Clint's knees to keep him where he is (like he's going anywhere, Christ) as he jerks himself off on Phil's belly and watches Phil watch him shoot. 

Clint holds himself there for another minute, feeling Phil relax slowly and watching him move the arm carefully for a better position. "How's the leg?"

"Fine,"Phil says. "I mean, I don't give even the tiniest shit if it's not, but it is." 

Clint pulls away, rolling free and sitting up to examine first the leg, which he couldn't see while he was exerting Phil kind of mercilessly, then the shoulder. "Okay, you're good," he says. "Stay put." He gets up to get a cloth from the bathroom; he has every intention of cuddling up for a nap, and unless Phil has even more hidden depths than Clint suspects, he's probably not a fan of waking up sticky.

"Bossy," Phil accuses as he comes back.

"Nah. Next time you're in charge." Clint wipes away the mess and replaces the sling, then flops back down. "Also, next time, briefcase, because if that was like that with only my hand, I really want to know what you can do with lube and penetration.

Phil raises his eyebrows. "Oh, I think I have more supplies than that," he says.

Clint's full-body shiver makes him laugh and lean in for another kiss.

And then Clint gets up and fetches the briefcase, placing it next to the bed. "Just so it's handy," he says.

Phil nods and squirms his way under the covers. "Planning ahead. Always the best policy." His eyes fall shut, and Clint slides in beside him and sleeps until his phone rings.

He doesn't answer, instead taking the opportunity to order them some food and then kiss his way down Phil's belly under the covers.

"Thought I was in charge this time," Phil mutters, low and rough, but he doesn't seem to have a problem with Clint sucking his balls into his mouth one at a time, throwing back the covers to watch as Clint slides his lips down over his cock. "I guess it'll have to be a raincheck," he says.

Clint's glad to hear it; he's wanted to do this for a couple of weeks now and a raincheck in addition sounds fabulous.

"So, I guess Fury wants to see me," Clint says half an hour later, tucking his phone back in the pocket of the jeans he's dragged up off the floor to check. "I'll shower and then ...you'll stay until I get back, right? I mean, and after that, but for the immediate future, you're staying?"

"Take all the time you need." Phil grins, sleepy and sated, and Clint seriously considers calling back and telling Fury to fucking wait because he needs to do a little more ravishing first. But he's a grownup, and also he's pretty sure once he goes down that path he's not going to come up for air until tomorrow, and, most importantly, he's pretty sure neither one of them can actually go again for a while, so he takes his shower like a good boy, calls Fury to say he's on his way, and dresses in the camo again for a trip back to the base.

\--

"Mr. Barton." Fury looks at Clint over the wide gray surface of his heavy metal desk. Natasha stands behind him, watching Clint with that creepy level gaze of hers. "Has Agent Coulson explained to you who we are, what we do?"

Clint considers what he knows and what Phil has said. It's not a lot, but between the skills he's seen, the snatches he heard yesterday in Medical, and a few sentences here and there, he thinks he gets what SHIELD is all about. "Not in so many words," he says, "but I think I have the general idea."

"Do you, now?"

Clint shrugs. "I'm good with a little ambiguity, and if he can't tell me things, which obviously has come up already, well. Why?"

"Ordinarily, this conversation is one Coulson himself has with potential recruits--"

"Potential recruits?" Clint blinks.

"As I was saying. Despite there there is considerably more information implicit in this statement than I wish to have at my disposal--and mind, I don't turn down information very often, business like mine, you see--"

"Uh, okay?"

"Despite that, he wished to be certain you did not believe anything you and he may or may not have done in any crappy motel room in East Asstown _or_ North Shieldville, USA had any bearing on the request. Didn't want you to feel pressured, apparently."

"Or North Shieldville? Confident, I guess. But... didn't want me to feel pressured, so he sent me to you?" Clint raises his eyebrows. "And her? I'm pretty sure that's the least effective thing I've ever seen him do."

"As a certain young man he and I both know, and perhaps you will now, as well, might say: verily."

"So, potential recruit?" Clint's impulse is to fidget and offer sarcastic commentary, but the guy makes him want to stand up straight and act like he has his shit together, so he's more or less standing at something like parade rest. Ish. What? He's seen movies.

"SHIELD is prepared to make you such an offer," Fury says. "Your skills are unusual, and based on your response to recent events as well as that information which shows up in our background examination, we feel you can meet a need for us. And probably for you. Obviously, we'd see to getting you whatever training or education you might need, and our benefits are as good as our danger quotient is high." He goes on a little more about how Clint can choose otherwise and has options, about how not everyone can be a sniper and it's demanding work, but Natasha is arching a brow at him and making tiny movements with her shoulders, and Clint shakes his head. 

"I don't think I need a lot of time to consider," he says. "Would I get to work with Phil?"

"I believe that was one of the conditions he had set, if you agreed."

"And is it going to be a problem that we had, you know, more information-you-don't-want-implicit kinds of stuff? Or that that's gonna be ongoing?"

Fury cracks a grin, just briefly, at Clint pushing his own words back at him, then he's back to mostly-menacing. "Smartass. SHIELD has no anti-fraternization policy and cares only that agents and assets remain professional on the job. There's a reporting requirement, and I don't want to know any more about it."

"Then I'm in." Clint grins. "Hey. Does this place have convenience-store quality burritos? Or some tiny donuts I could take back with me?"

Fury snorts, and pushes back his chair. "Romanov, show this clown the mess. Barton, here's your first assignment: you keep him busy for a couple of days to heal. Then you report back here, and we'll get started."

Clint nods. "You got it."

**Author's Note:**

> May 2015 addendum: this is the convenience store/gas station in my head when I wrote this. Real place, and to my great amusement when I stopped to take the pic, they now have on their readerboard: "have grill will cook." :D
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> [(larger view here)](https://40.media.tumblr.com/f3d6f609cbce91c5d7fe62f8bafe9caf/tumblr_noz21dvAf31tyr8yvo1_1280.jpg)  
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